A Different Meeting
by Fyreheart
Summary: What if Mike Stamford didn't introduce Sherlock Holmes and John Watson at St. Bart's? What if a murderous cabbie had picked up a man limping along the street late at night?
**A Different Meeting**

What if Mike Stamford didn't introduce Sherlock Holmes and John Watson at St. Bart's? What if a murderous cabbie had picked up a man limping along the street late at night?

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Sherlock Holmes, the self-proclaimed world's only Consulting Detective, looked at the incoming caller id on his phone. He preferred text, but DI Lestrade was a call he would take, especially outside of Lestrade's normal working hours. He had been following the three identical 'suicides' and was certain that they were actually clever murders. Perhaps there had been a fourth and Lestrade was now bringing him in!

"Sherlock, after your stunt at the news conference, I really shouldn't indulge you," the man declared, "but just so you don't get into trouble, I'll let you know. The serial 'suicides' are over. You were right, it _was_ murder. The murderer was a cabbie. His latest victim caught him".

"Location," demanded the detective crisply. He was annoyed that he hadn't been able to investigate and unravel the case before it was resolved. In fact, he was a little indignant at the murderer for being stupid enough to be caught by his newest victim. He quickly grabbed his coat and scarf, dressing warmly as he ran down the steps of the apartment building and flagged a cab once outside. "Of course it was a cab driver," he muttered to himself. "They are mostly invisible; they go everywhere and no one notices them. I should have realized that." He studied his own driver, deducing that she was a single mother of one, no, two children. Her own mother was watching the children as she worked her shift.

The detective arrived at the Brixton Road scene to find it filled with NSY officers and cars. Many cars had flashing turret lights reflecting in nearby windows, adding to the frenetic atmosphere. Although the approach to the rundown building was cordoned off, he was recognized by one of the constables and allowed to lift the police tape and proceed into the area. Not that he would have permitted anyone to stop him. He needed information about what happened to find closure on this case! He looked around for Lestrade and found him speaking with a shorter man in his mid-thirties.

He catalogued the unknown man with a brief but thorough inspection. Perhaps two or three years older than Sherlock was, slightly less than medium height, sandy blonde hair in a military cut, compact yet muscled body, standing at parade rest, dressed simply in casual clothes. The man rolled his left shoulder twice as he talked with the DI; an apparent injury causing him some pain, possibly from the confrontation with the murderer? As the detective approached, he noticed the other man had a fading tan on his face, neck and hands, which ended at the bottom of his neck, visible with the open collar he wore. He held a cane lightly in his grasp behind his back, but didn't appear to need it to stand. Military man, on leave at least, but possibly discharged due to injury. He wondered whether the attempted victim, now witness, had been in Iraq or Afghanistan.

Lestrade saw the consultant arrive and nodded to him. The blonde flicked his eyes towards Sherlock, assessing him quickly, then returned his gaze to the Detective Inspector. Sherlock wondered what the man saw in his quick appraisal; probably not much. Most people didn't _observe_. He didn't feel dismissed by the glance though, simply acknowledged.

"Doctor John Watson, this is Sherlock Holmes," introduced the Detective Inspector. "He frequently assists us with some inquiries. Sherlock, Doctor Watson disarmed and captured our man."

"Iraq or Afghanistan," Sherlock asked, filing away that this was a doctor; above average intelligence probably, with ample knowledge of the body to be able to disarm an attacker.

The doctor raised an eyebrow at the question, gazing at him curiously. "Afghanistan," he replied after a few moments.

"Doctor, but also military. I'm surprised he picked you," admitted the detective.

"He didn't seem to think that I was a threat," the blonde replied with a self-deprecating smile, wagging the cane behind his back as a possible explanation.

"Would you mind giving Sherlock a quick rundown, Doctor Watson, while I speak to one of my officers," asked Lestrade.

The doctor nodded amiably. "I flagged a cab to return to my lodgings after my evening walk," he began. "I noticed that the driver didn't seem to be heading in the right direction. When I commented, he locked the doors. We arrived here," he waved towards the abandoned building. "He got out of the cab and then tried to order me out waving a supposed hand gun at me."

"But being in the military, you recognized that it wasn't real," deduced the detective.

"It would probably appear real to a civilian, but it was obviously not authentic. He told me he was going to give me a chance to play a game with him, and that only one of us would survive it. Once I was out of the car, I disarmed and disabled him, then tied him with my belt and called the police. I had no idea he was a serial murderer until Detective Inspector Lestrade recognized the connection to the suicide investigations."

There was no broken skin evident on the doctor's hands or scuff marks on his clothing, so disarming the driver had been relatively easy for the man. Intriguing. "Did he mention what the game was?"

"No, but I understand that he had two vials in different pockets, each with what appeared to be identical pills. My guess is that I was supposed to choose one under gun point." The man seemed darkly amused by the concept.

Sherlock looked forward to the lab reports on the two pills, but this man was also interesting. He appeared so unassuming, but easily disabled a serial killer. "You needed a cab after your walk because…" Sherlock evaluated the man again, "…you were in pain and decided not to walk all the way back to your accommodations."

Doctor Watson raised an eyebrow again and gave another barely there smile at the other man's perceptive analysis. "Yes, my leg was bothering me."

That didn't seem quite right. The doctor stood easily without needing the cane. "You were wounded in both your shoulder and the leg?"

"Something like that." The doctor didn't offer anything else on himself, but followed up with a curious question. "How do you assist the police with their inquiries?"

"I'm a consulting detective," Sherlock answered. "When the police are out of their depths, which is always, they consult me."

The older man grinned at him. "Humble and modest, I see."

"There's no reason to be modest when it's the truth," Sherlock smirked.

The blonde yawned unexpectedly and then a slight blush colored his cheeks. "Sorry, it's getting late."

A quick glance at the time on his phone revealed that it was past midnight and Sherlock wondered where the doctor was staying; whether with family or by himself. "If Lestrade is done with you, we can share a ride back."

"Assuming the cabbie can be trusted," the other man replied with tired good humor.

"I'll rely on you to subdue him if he's not," Sherlock replied with a small but genuine smile of his own. This man was unusual. He didn't get angry at Sherlock's deductions. He was friendly and good-natured, but easily able to disable an attacker. However, his clothes hung a little loosely, as if he had lost weight recently, and besides dark shadows under his eyes, he had evidence of tension in his face. Sherlock was increasingly certain that whatever injury the doctor had sustained had been serious enough to discharge the man.

It was another thirty minutes before Lestrade released them, so Sherlock used the time to observe the killer. He was a man in his fifties, wearing good but now worn clothes at least three years old. A quick look inside of the cab itself showed a worn picture of two children, but the picture was cropped, as if to cut out a third figure. Divorced man, he deduced, not seeing his children often based on the age of the picture. He would have a newer picture if he was. He learned that the cabbie did have vials with identical pills in them in two separate pockets. Based on what Doctor Watson had told him, he deduced that the man told his victims that one was safe and that he would let them choose one. Sherlock wondered whether the cabbie offered to take the other pill. He also thought it more likely that both were poisoned and that the cabbie had already taken the antidote. Pity, it would have been interesting to see how that worked out, but the forensics should provide the answers. At one point, he thought the cabbie noticed him and gave a pleased smirk, but wasn't sure it was directed at him specifically. Perhaps he would surreptitiously search Lestrade's computer for the man's interview records.

Eventually, Doctor Watson was released from the scene, and he and Sherlock walked to the main street in order to catch a cab. The detective noticed that the man used the cane because of a slight limp and compared it to how he had stood without any indication of pain. Perhaps the limp was psychosomatic? Curious, what would cause a psychosomatic injury when the man already had an authentic wound? He dropped the doctor off at a veteran's hostel, one that only had bed-sits; miserable one-room flats. A physician couldn't afford better? Perhaps his shoulder injury had ended his medical career; in which case he was likely a surgeon.

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The following morning, John Watson, former Captain in the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers, MBBS, awoke in his tiny and somewhat depressing bed-sit feeling a bit better than the day before. Since the armor-piercing bullet tore his shoulder apart, he had lost his direction in life. Although he recovered the majority of the use of his arm and hand, the small intermittent tremor and the numbness in his fingers prevented his return to surgery. He was honorably discharged and returned to London, undergoing painful physical therapy. Unfortunately, he only saw a long and drab life in front of him; he no longer had the fine touch for surgery and didn't have anything waiting in the wings. Treating runny noses as a GP didn't appeal to him. Where once he was a part of a larger effort with an important role, he now felt isolated and useless.

Just the other day, he had told the therapist assigned to him for mandatory counseling that nothing ever happened to him. Yesterday though, something interesting had occurred. Yes, someone targeted him for murder, but he had felt a slight thrill in realizing he was locked in the cab. When the cab stopped and the driver got out, holding a hand gun on him, for a split second, he thought the driver was holding a real weapon and he had quickly identified three ways to disarm him safely. Once he realized the weapon was actually a toy, he simply kicked the man in the knee when he exited the cab, which dropped the driver to the ground. He grasped one hand and twisted it up and behind the man's back, while dropping his own knee on the man's back to keep him down. He used his free hand to withdraw his own belt, and then looped it around both hands of the cabbie and then bent the uninjured leg, tying the ankle in as well. After that, he called the police on his mobile and reported the attempted kidnapping. Well, at least he had something to write about in the otherwise dreary blog the therapist wanted him to keep.

He showered, dressed, and made himself a cup of tea on the tiny two-burner stove in the dingy room. He was about to sit at the laptop to write up the event on the blog when he was surprised by a knock at the door.

He opened it to find the "consulting detective" he had met the previous night. The man was nearly half a foot taller than John, but he was used to that. At only five foot and seven inches, most men were taller than him. This man was at least six foot, with dark curly hair, grey eyes, and obviously expensive clothing. Apparently being a "consulting detective" paid off, he thought. Although, he remembered that the man had a rather posh accent last night. Perhaps he came from money.

"Mr. Holmes," he acknowledged his visitor. "What brings you here today?" He was vaguely amused to see the man glance beyond him and critically examine the small room, taking in every item. He knew it wasn't a glamorous flat, but the bed-sit was all he could afford on his pension. In fact, he was going to have to move out of London fairly soon to find less expensive accommodations, something he tried to avoid thinking about.

"Lestrade will want you to sign a statement today," his visitor replied. "And I wanted to see if my observations were correct." He stopped there and looked at John expectantly.

The doctor considered the two disjointed statements. "Do you always fetch witnesses to sign statements," he asked, stepping away from the door to allow the other man entrance to the room.

"Obviously not," Holmes replied with scorn, moving in to the bedsit. "Since I wanted to observe you again, I thought giving you a ride to New Scotland Yard would give me that opportunity."

"I'm not a very interesting man," John replied calmly, but fetching his coat.

"Oh, but you are." Sherlock wanted to learn more about this man and couldn't exactly open his laptop and review his browsing history, at least not yet. Perhaps…he patted his pockets, ignoring the mobile in his inside coat pocket and said, "Do you have a phone? I should text Lestrade."

John hid a smile at the man's actions, and withdrew the mobile phone Harry had pressed on him, handing it over to the detective.

Sherlock opened it, pretending to text as he looked at the few contacts and evaluated the phone. "When I met you last night, I asked 'Afghanistan or Iraq', and you were surprised."

John raised an eyebrow at the non-sequitur. "Yes, I was. Very few civilians recognize me as a veteran. How did you know?"

The detective tipped his head. "I didn't know, but I saw, I observed. You have a fading tan, but the tan line ends at your wrists and at the base of your throat, so you've been abroad, but not sunbathing. Your haircut, the way you hold yourself, all says military. Lestrade introduced you as Doctor Watson, therefore a military doctor. You rolled your shoulder due to discomfort and carry a cane, although you don't really need the cane, because you stand easily without it, leading me to believe the limp may be psychosomatic, but the shoulder injury was fairly traumatic and extensive. Wounded in action and a fading suntan brought me to Afghanistan or Iraq."

"That is amazing," John declared in honest admiration. "I'm impressed. What else can you tell me?"

Sherlock blinked in surprise at being _invited_ to deduce someone. "You have a brother who gave you this phone," he began, waving the phone. "It's expensive, but you're in cheap bed-sit, so you wouldn't waste money on a phone like this. Therefore, it makes sense that it was given to you. The back of the phone is engraved "Harry Watson from Clara xxx". Harry is clearly the family member who gave you his old phone. Not your father, as this is a young man's gadget. Could be a cousin, but you're a war veteran who is living _here_ ," he waved disparagingly at the bed-sit, "so you don't have another place to live. That makes it unlikely that you've got an extended family, certainly not one you're close to, so a brother's former mobile it is. Clara's name is followed by three x's or kisses, so that's a romantic attachment. This expensive of a phone says it was gifted by a wife, not a girlfriend. She must have given it to him recently since this model's only six months old. Their marriage is in trouble then, six months and already he's giving the phone away? He gave the phone to you, so that says he wants you to stay in touch. You're choosing to live here and you're not going to your brother for help? That says you've got problems with him. Maybe you liked his wife, maybe you don't like his drinking."

John realized his mouth had dropped open at the man's rapid comments and gathered his wits. "Why do you think there's drinking involved?"

Sherlock gave a slight smile. "That was a shot in the dark, although a good one. There are tiny scuff marks around the power connection. When he goes to plug it in and charge it at night, his hands are shaky. You don't see those marks on a sober man's phone, but you rarely see a drunk's without them."

John gave the other man a large and admiring grin. "That is extraordinary. Quite extraordinary."

Sherlock was stunned. Most people responded with anger or embarrassment when he revealed details about their lives. This man was impressed and complimentary. He had possibilities. Abruptly he asked, "How do you feel about the violin?"

John blinked at the unexpected change in topic. "I'm sorry, the violin? Why do you ask?"

"Because I play the violin when I'm thinking and sometimes I don't talk for days on end. Would that bother you? Potential flatmates should know the worst about each other."

John was having trouble following the conversation now. "Potential flatmates?"

"Yes, keep up. I have my eye on a nice little place in central London. Together, we ought to be able to afford it. We can go look at it after you sign your statement at the Met."

"Just like that," John asked, his amusement returning.

"You don't want to stay _here_ , obviously. You do want to stay in London. You're used to some excitement in your life. Living outside the city would bore you. You're not boring. If you can adjust to the violin and my silences, we might make good flatmates. Mrs. Hudson, the landlady, is giving me a special deal. A few years back, her husband was sentenced to death in Florida. I was able to help out." He looked at the doctor hoping for a positive response.

"I see," the doctor said slowly, before focusing on one part of the other man's comments as he tried to think about the others. "You stopped her husband from being executed?"

"Oh no. I ensured it," Sherlock said simply.

The grin slowly returned to John's face at that clarification. "OK, you're on. Let's go look at the flat later."

"Good. By the way, did I get anything wrong?"

"In your analysis? You were mostly spot on. Harry and I don't get on. Never have, really. Clara and Harry split up three months ago and are getting a divorce, primarily because of Harry's drinking."

The two left the bed-sit and headed to the street. Sherlock flagged a cab, which seemed to appear magically. After they were seated and their destination given, he added, "Spot on then. I didn't expect to be right about everything." He seemed quite pleased with himself.

"Well," John said with a grin, "Harry _is_ short for Harriet."

Sherlock looked at him in shock and visibly re-aligned his thoughts. "Harry is your sister."

"Yep."

"Sister. I made stereotypical assumptions on both the names and the sexual identities of both parties."

John just continued to grin at the obviously exasperated younger man.

"Why is there always _something_?"

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End file.
